John Watson: Hunter Extraordinaire
by FirePrincess2015
Summary: John Watson is an English Hunter...and still hasn't told Sherlock. (I know it's been done, but I really liked the idea) How does Sherlock react to the knowledge of the Supernatural? Are the American Hunters going to make an appearance? What will Mycroft say? And DI Lestrade is in for the shock of his life (AKA demons possess Anderson)
1. Chapter 1

*Please note that I do not work for/ represent BBC or The CW (who own Supernatural, last I checked. If they no longer have the rights, I don't represent the owner). But jolly gee, don't I wish….*

John Watson's guilt was devouring him. Sherlock had returned from his _death _(it had been a shock trying to trade his life for Sherlock's to find out he wasn't really dead, the idiot) but John still hadn't told him of his secret duty. His flat mate had once told him that future flat mates should know the worst of each other. By keeping Sherlock in the dark John was protecting him, but it was shredding John's conscience to bits. He couldn't know about the secret stash of holy water and salt under the creaky floorboard next to his bed (Mrs. Hudson would have a fit). Lying to Sherlock had been easy until that bloody phone call from the American hunters. They'd needed directions to some demon's grave. Apparently they hadn't yet figured out that Demons' bones could be burned like ghosts.

"John?" Grey eyes were peering at him inquisitively. Damn. Sherlock was making this hard.

"Just thinking." was his unusually gruff answer. Sherlock steepled an eyebrow suspiciously.

"Fine. Pass me your laptop, I'm bored." John couldn't do that. The directions to a Scottish cemetery were still there and would bring up questions. Besides, he'd been looking at buying new silver bullets online.

"Use yours." John glanced at his watch. Dinnertime. Perfect. "Or better yet, let's go get some food. I'd consent to Angelo's." Sherlock seemed to notice that it was a thinly veiled order.

"Fine. It'll staunch this boredom for a few seconds." He was acting like a petulant child, but at least he was dressed.

The taxi ride to Angelo's seemed to take forever in the uncomfortable silence (John was still _thinking_).

Dinner went as trivial as possible. They talked about some case they'd received that Sherlock had solved in about two seconds. "It was the assistant-_obviously_."

"Sherlock?" He was going to tell him about the excursions to kill demons and other things that go bump in the night, but the grey eyes peering up at him so eagerly made it impossible. So he said "Can we walk home? It's a lovely night." Normally he wouldn't have agreed, but something about John's demeanor throughout the day caused him to relent.

"Fine, at least it won't be as boring as taking a car." He flipped his collar up dramatically and swished his coat. "Come along John." John shoved his hands in his pockets, trudging along Sherlock's lanky form. They walked in companionable silence until a shrill scream wrenched through the cool night air. Eyes met and they were off on a chase for the attacker. In a nearby alleyway a woman was pressed into the brick wall. Her attacker's face was pressed against her neck. The screams were silenced by a hand over her mouth. "Stop!" Sherlock shouted.

A head rose to meet their eyesight. Bright red orbs glinted back, the woman's lifeblood glinting on fangs.

"Sherlock, run." John ordered.

"But John, that woman..."

"_Now_, Sherlock. And _don't_ call Lestrade." Greg would want a full investigation on the most likely dead woman's attacker. For once, Sherlock actually listened to John (a Christmas miracle!).

Sherlock paused at the alleyway entrance. "John! Come on!" John ignored his best friend. The vampire was eyeing him up.

"Hmm." It took a deep breath. "Hunter. And here I thought I'd have to catch dessert." It grinned. John's fingers gripped the knife hidden up his sleeve- thankful he'd remembered to bring it.

"You shouldn't have gone hunting tonight, bloodsucker." John drawled.

It snickered. "It's not as if _you're_ the great John Watson. You're probably some bloke named John who thought he'd try his hand at hunting. You're gonna be a great meal." It lunged at John- teeth snapping in the thin air where John had been standing.

"Wrong." John said, borrowing Sherlock's word. He swung the knife, connecting with its bicep. "My name _is _John Watson." The knife severed the vampire's neck, separating the head from the body. He turned his attention to the woman. Still alive, barely. "Sherlock! I know you're still there. Help me get her back to our flat." John wrenched his jacket off to staunch the bleeding from the bite marks in her neck. Sherlock seemed to materialize by him.

"Why no ambulance? And was it _necessary_ to decapitate the poor fellow?" He fiddled with his coat buttons. "And why did you tell me to run?" Sherlock was sure in a chatty mood. Perhaps he couldn't deduce it from John's knife.

"Later, Sherlock. She needs medical attention." And the cure for vampirism, he added mentally.

"Fine." He huffed. John sighed. The explanation of this was going to suck- pun intended. Mycroft probably had CCTV on this alleyway and would be paying him a not so pleasant visit. _Just_ what he needed.

By some miracle they reached the flat without alerting any authorities. The girl was stabilized. John put the kettle on and prepared a glass of remedy for her- just in case. She began to come around.

"Mmm." Her eyes snapped open- blood red. John jumped into action, forcing the cure down her throat. She began to vomit all over the flat's carpet. At least she wasn't trying to eat them. "You saved me." She whispered when the bout had gone and her humanity had been returned.

"Yeah. Watch the wound. You got a bad round of LSD. You should be alright in a few days. The blood loss will be a problem, try to drink fluids. We'll call you a cab."

Sherlock turned to interrogate him immediately after the woman had left. "All in due time, Sherlock." He made a tea for them with the boiled water from the kettle. "Here, drink it." Sherlock eyed it suspiciously, but sipped it anyway.

"Explain. Now." He ordered.

John took a huge breath and sighed. "That was a vampire. And I-I'm a Hunter."

A/N: Whew. That was hard. I'll keep this brief. Hope you liked it! Comment please


	2. Chapter 2

*I don't own Sherlock/Supernatural*

Sherlock sat stunned- clutching his tea until his knuckles turned more white than they already were. "That's impossible, John."

John quirked a blonde eyebrow at his flat mate (trying not to be too angry). "You realize that it's very difficult for me to tell you all of this, right? I was trying to get out of the life- or at least hunt when you were too preoccupied to notice." Sherlock's eyebrows knit together.

"So, you've been _lying_ to me? I thought we said no more lies…" He sounded hurt, like a child when they discover the truths of our mad world.

"No, not exactly. It's more like _omitting._ And it was all to protect you. Do you realize how many times you've almost gotten eaten by an angry demon, or vampire, or, or…" He trailed off, slowly recognizing the similarities between Sherlock's own deception.

"So you've figured that out, then?" Said flat mate stated with a quirk of his lips that might be a smile.

"I'm terribly sorry, Sherlock. I wasn't sure you'd believe me." John said, eyes fixed on the windows.

"All is forgiven. But- why did you decapitate the vampire?" Sherlock's tone was eager and slightly incredulous.

"It's a vampire. If you don't decapitate them they don't _stay_ dead. And _no,_ you cannot have one to experiment on." The eager light in Sherlock's eyes seemed to dim a little.

"The vampire, it called you great. Are you a famed Hunter?" Sherlock sounded as if this bit of information was hard to connect to his jumper wearing best friend.

"Yeah. My family was sort of the renowned hunters in the UK and Ireland, till they got killed by an upper level demon. I've got some contacts in America, some all around the world really. It's not as if the demons concentrate on a specific area. Well, they are trying to stage the Apocalypse in America. So, I guess that counts. Luckily for us, the Angels are as angry as us about that. You'd like the angels. They don't do social either." John was babbling.

Sherlock asked his question from earlier. "We didn't call an ambulance because she'd be turned, correct? And that goop you fed her returned her to a human state. Why didn't you just use that on the other vampire? Was it something to do with blood?" He looked genuinely interested, a rare expression to grace Sherlock's face (and cheekbones).

"Pretty much. If a vampire has ingested human blood they can't use the cure. One of my American friends went for a while without feeding- which is a huge feat. His family brought the cure over with them on the Mayflower. There's other monsters out there. It's not just vampires and demons. There are Skinwalkers, and werewolves, witches, pagan gods that eat people. The list gets bigger every Hunt." Sherlock grinned at his explanations.

"Oh this is _Christmas!_" he exclaimed. "I knew something had to be bothering you, but this- this is _magnificent!_" John grinned back at him.

"But they're even more dangerous than your average criminal." Sherlock's phone rang almost immediately after John had finished his warning. Sherlock frowned at it.

"Lestrade. Probably about our vampire. I'll answer it. Hello? Yes, we'll be there in a few." Sherlock nodded at John. "It's probably best if you got a new jacket. Lestrade found a different murder. Apparently the body had sulfur by it. Is that something supernatural?" Sherlock had begun to pace.

"Well, let's go then." John said, returning with a new jumper (his had vampire blood on it) and a fresh jacket (the old one had that woman's blood soaking into its fibers).

The crime scene was gruesome. John recognized it as a demon's work immediately. Lestrade had seemed pleased to see them. Sherlock kept sending quizzical glances John's way, and it was starting to get irritating. They left after a brief altercation with Sergeant Donovan. She'd insulted Sherlock, _again_. Honestly, the woman never learned from the cold shoulder. John had finally had enough of her nitpicking.

"Sergeant!" He barked. She jumped and paled, shoulders seeming to draw straighter. "Sherlock is my _best friend._ And I'd advise you to _stop_ insulting him before I do something that will make this murder look like child's play." If possible, Sally grew paler. "Now apologize."

"Sorry Sherlock." She mumbled demurely and the duo excused themselves from the crime scene shortly after.

"It was a demon." John said to Sherlock's unspoken question. "And I'm tired. It's almost 3 hundred hours. Let's go back to the flat and get some sleep."  
When they returned John couldn't rest until he'd established a thin line of salt around the perimeter of their flat, and Mrs. Hudson's just to be cautious.

Morning brought John's favorite- jam and tea. Sherlock was asleep on the couch in his dressing gown. He set a mug down by his friend to be kind. He switched the telly on to hear a few snippets of news before Sherlock dragged him off on another adventure.

"Scotland Yard has confirmed reports of multiple rumors by a supposed Jack Ripper copy cat. Detective Inspector Lestrade has been given the case, and refrains from further comment." Sherlock rubbed his eyes blearily.

"So that's what they're calling the Demon case?" He mumbled. "Wrong, _obviously_."

"You wouldn't have gotten it right two days ago, either." John teased, sipping his tea and switching off the telly (he could just _tell_ that Sherlock was going to drag him into Scotland Yard to see if there was a new victim). Sherlock hmphed at John in displeasure. John's ring tone burst the morning ritual of tea drinking.

The number was out of country. John sighed, the Winchesters must've run into some trouble before heading home and needed someone to bail them out. Typical American hunters.

"Yeah." John's voice was dry, the epitome of 'Don't mess with me, because you will lose _horridly_'.

"Demons. This country is _full_ of 'em. Castiel! Get your hands _off _of my coffee. Go try some tea or something. The Brits seem to like tea! Sorry, John. We saw the murder on the news and were wondering if you needed any help? We've been stopping at tourist attractions and ganking local haunts. But, Cas says we have to be _charitable_ to our hosts or some sissy junk like that. So, I'm calling you and he's monopolizing my coffee." Dean was Dean as always.

"It would be great if you could stay in the country for a few more days. I just introduced a friend to the whole demon thing, and he's _insisting_ on running head first into it." John's conversation had piqued Sherlock's interest, until the thinly veiled barb that is.

"I am not."

"You are."

"Not. I'm Bored." John rolled his eyes at the childish behavior and returned to the phone call.

"Can you text? It's _so _ much more efficient than a phone call when sneaking up on a monster."

"Yeah. I'll keep you posted. _NO_ Cas, not my _pie!_ Sorry John, Gotta go. I have to kill an angel for eating my freakin pie. My _pie, _man!"

John started to chuckle. Dean was refreshingly honest behind all the webs of lies he told to others. "Hopefully we won't have to see you, but it's good knowing you're there to save our arses if things go south. 'Bye Dean. Give my regards to Sam and Castiel."

The call disconnected with a shout from Sam about not _flirting_ during his breakfast and to _get a room. _So things were like that then. John turned to Sherlock.

"Let's go see Lestrade then. Come along John." His flat mate said- dressed in the time span of a short phone call. John chugged the rest of his tea and hurried after his best friend.

A/N Demon Anderson is coming, I _swear_. Let me know how this is, and the direction you want it to go in (or I'll end up doing something incredibly dumb with the character development, probably).


	3. Chapter 3

*Don't own Sherlock or Supernatural…*

Scotland Yard was in disarray. Lights hung from the ceiling, showering sparks every now and then. Blood was smeared on the walls and floor, a sort of macabre finger painting.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was distant as he stared at the carnage.

"Crap." Was John's only reply before he was pulling an amulet out of his jacket pocket. "Wear this, and whatever you do, _don't take it off."_ He tugged the necklace over Sherlock's curls and gripped his pocketknife tightly.

"What about you?" Sherlock seemed confused. John laughed and tugged his jumper down to show Sherlock the symbol imprinted above his heart.

"Anti possession tattoo. Smartest thing I've ever done. But you'll just have to do with the amulet for now." A scream echoed through the halls, bouncing over wreckage of cubicles and dead Yarders. Laughter soon followed the pain filled outcry. The pair took off towards the sound.

Sally was huddled in a corner of Lestrade's office, shaking in terror. Lestrade was bleeding from deep cuts (but not life threatening) and Anderson stood above him- knife in hand and a gun in his holster. Anderson was still cackling. John coughed to get his attention.

"Anderson? Anderson is evil? I mean I knew he was incompetent…" Sherlock mused. "OH. Oh that makes perfect sense!" Sherlock brightened.

"No Sherlock. We aren't keeping him-possessed or not." Pseudo Anderson seemed a bit bewildered at their exchange.

"You know you won't be leaving alive, right? This was set up to draw Sherlock out, all so I could kill his little hunter pet. The great John Watson wouldn't leave his precious detective unprotected. Your deaths are going to be _wonderful,_ for me of course. I wonder if you'll scream or beg like mummy and daddy?"

John saw red. This bastard had killed his parents, and enjoyed it too. "You aren't going to get a chance." He ground out.

Anderson's demon laughed. "No? You are nothing like the John Watson who supposedly closed the demon rift in Wales, or the John Watson who took out a whole pack of werewolves with one silver knife. You've grown weak. I'd suspected from earlier events, but when you tried to trade your soul for Sherlock's return with my friend at the crossroads, only to discover that living men can't be brought from the dead, I just knew you'd gone soft. See, it's a perfect time for me to come back and finish your pathetic family off. Too bad little Harriet chose today to reconcile with you through Lestrade here."

"Go to Hell, bastard." John spat.

"Already been there. It's dreadfully boring. You would've loved what we had in store for your soul, but Sherlock wasn't really dead. A pity. John Watson the hunter turned soulless demon would've been a legendary story to tell. You could've been up there with Dean Winchester- the man who began the Apocalypse." Sherlock started to giggle. John gave him the _this is a crime scene we can't giggle _look and busted out laughing too. "What's so funny?" the demon asked bewilderedly. Anderson's body had paced over the spot by the window (Lestrade's office was never vacuumed) that John had painted in iridescent paints earlier that month (just in case). The demon screamed at being placed in the devil's trap. "There are others! I'll be let out sooner than you think!"

Dean chose that moment to burst in. "John. Cas said there was some sort of lieutenant of Crowley's here, and, oh you've got it." He sounded a little disappointed. Sam tripped on his brother and they sprawled onto the floor. "Sammy!" Dean reprimanded. Castiel stood in his trench coat in the doorway.

"Dean, Sam. We do not have the time for your childish games. Orobas is going to tell us the information on Purgatory and then we're going home." Sally had recovered enough to put in a nasty remark.

"And who are you then? The freak's cousin from the States?"

Castiel looked confused. "No, I am an angel of the Lord. This vessel is in no way related to Sherlock Holmes." Sally's mouth dropped open, this was too much for her to handle.

"Hey Cas, could you be a wonderful Angel of the Lord and unpossess Anderson here-without killing him? We've lost a few more Yarders that I would've liked today." Castiel grimaced at John's words.

"I cannot. Orobas is central to our plan with Crowley and Purgatory."

Dean looked angry. "More like _your_ plan with Purgatory." He muttered- still on the floor.

"Dean now is not the time to discuss the ethics of using souls." Castiel warned his friend-partner?

Sherlock seemed to be in deep thought. "What if we let Orobas keep Anderson? Would that buy his silence about your plans? Can I shoot him? He did kill John's parents after all, and we're unsure about the location of Harry."

Castiel smiled. "This one is interesting. You've done well John Watson. He'll make an excellent hunter. Your sister is at home; she has been healed and will remember snippets of her time with Orobas. Do you have any of this substance called tea that is quite addicting? I found it better than Dean's coffee and pie."

Lestrade chose this moment to speak up. "Get the hell out of my police station! And take Anderson with you! He's fired for counts of murder and assault on fellow officers, also because he's NUTS like the rest of you!" Lestrade had refused to believe in the supernatural. It was simply impossible. Strange, John thought Sherlock would be the one to react like that.

Castiel turned to Sam (who was now talking to Sally). "Have you the vials of holy water?" Sam nodded. The angel turned to Dean. "We can take Orobas to the location discussed earlier, and leave him in the Devil's trap. We will return home after finding more tea."

John snickered. That the angel was craving tea was hilarious. "If you pop in at our flat we can provide you a good cuppa." He offered. "And I'm sure Sherlock would love to hear about your escapades in the States, what with the Apocalypse and all." Dean nodded.

"We do owe you from the whole cemetery thing." Sam said.  
"If he has the tea, we accept." Castiel remarked gravely. John had cleaned Lestrade's wounds with his holy water and jacket.

"There goes another jacket this week." He mourned. Sherlock began to giggle, earning himself a baleful glare.

"Let's go home, John." He gasped between giggle fits.

The flat had been untouched. John was grateful for his salt circle from the night before. He resolved to add devil's traps to the floor and ceiling by all the doors and windows in their flat and Mrs. Hudson's. Once the Americans (minus one Anderson/demon) had arrived they settled by the couch for conversation.

"Sherlock! Why is this head still in the fridge?! I told you to get rid of it! The bloody thing is starting to rot."

"But Jooohn, I let you keep your creepy bones." Sherlock whined from his chair. "And it's for an experiment!"

"You have your skull." John countered. "The bones are for protection from witches that come from the Northern Urals!" Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"But you're much more fun to talk to than the skull." He said after a few minutes of sulking.

John sighed. "Which is exactly why the head in the fridge has got to go! My jam is starting to taste like blood!" Sherlock finally nodded- a huge victory on John's part.

Dean let out a sigh of relief. "It's nice to see someone who isn't as sane as they seem." Sherlock's head whipped around to glare at him.

"At least we aren't convicted murderers who top the FBI most wanted and are supposed to be dead." He sneered. "And" he added, pointing his finger at the ceiling, "I haven't slept with half the women in the United States." Dean reddened.

"We haven't introduced ourselves properly." John said to quell the coming fight. "I'm John Watson and this is my best friend Sherlock Holmes." Sam let out a very manly squeal.

"I've read your blog, Mr. Holmes! Very good work!" Dean rolled his eyes.

"Just like the LARPing." He muttered to Castiel. The conversation continued in this vein until late and John offered the flat's sofa and floor to their guests. It was declined graciously (Cas was zapping them Stateside after this). Sherlock and John turned in with a jovial farewell to the American hunters and a warm goodnight to each other.


End file.
